


Almost Golden

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Boat Sex, Gentle Sex, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s days like this make Benny wish he’d been a painter.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Golden

**Author's Note:**

> Written for last week's [dirty!Denny](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/dirty%21denny) prompt, 'end of summer', which I missed due to being on holiday. Takes place in some sort of nebulous season-8-ish timeframe where "Taxi Driver" didn't happen, I guess.
> 
> Not betaed.

It’s days like this make Benny wish he’d been a painter.

The sea deep blue, and calm enough you could almost trust her not to dash you to pieces next time a strong wind whips up; the low gold of the late afternoon sun casting soft shadows on the deck. It doesn’t hurt his eyes, this time of day, just warms his cold bones through so he could almost imagine he’s a man again. 

And he’ll admit, the scenery’s mightily improved by Dean, laying stretched-out on his stomach on a blanket on deck, naked as the day he was born and still enough that Benny might think he was sleeping. Might—if he hadn’t spent half his life either hunter or hunted, if knowing the difference between a sleeping predator and a predator sleeping with one eye open wasn’t second nature to him.

Still, it’s easier than he’s seen Dean since Purgatory, easier than he’s felt himself since he got back topside. Out here on the water, sure, there are still things’ll kill you dead if you go looking for them—but that ain’t what either of them is running from. 

The boat creaks softly as she rocks under them. Dean stirs and shifts, the muscles in his back moving under the skin as he rolls his shoulders and then settles his head on his hands again. He makes a soft, happy sound somewhere in his chest. A picture of contentment.

Can’t last. Not for long; not for them. Soon enough, sun’s gonna slip down behind that horizon, and it’ll be time to take the boat back in to shore and say their goodbyes, the easy intimacy of the afternoon dissolving into stiff hugs and promises to _Take care of yourself, okay, man?_

It’s that thought that has Benny unfolding from where he sits on the deck, moving to cover Dean’s body with his own and press a kiss to the back of his neck. The skin is warm under Benny’s lips, sprinkled with freckles that weren’t there when Dean stripped his shirt off this morning. Makes him feel a little warmer inside, too, to think that Dean’s gonna take something of this day with him when he goes.

Dean turns his head, and Benny catches the start of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the quirk of an eyebrow. “You up for another round?” Dean says. “What number are we even on now?”

Benny leans in for another kiss, this time in the sensitive spot behind Dean’s ear. “Didn’t know we were keepin’ score now,” he murmurs, as Dean leans back into him, tips his head to the side to give Benny better access.

It ain’t strictly true. Benny doesn't keep score, but he keeps track. First time’s always frantic, a breathless rush of hands and bruising kisses that ends too fast, with somebody pressed against a hard surface. Not that Benny objects to that, but the second time, the third—those are always better. When they’ve taken the edge off. When Dean drops his guard enough to let Benny take his time.

Like he’s gonna do now. He presses his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes deep, lets his end-of-day melancholy fall away. It can wait a little longer.

He kisses his way down the side of Dean’s neck, wet and open-mouthed, smiling against his skin when he hears Dean’s heartbeat quicken. Benny doesn’t use his teeth, doesn’t need to; feels Dean’s breath catch in his chest as he goes lower, trails kisses along his spine.

Slow, slow, he makes his way down. By the time he reaches that other sensitive spot—right there in the small of Dean’s back—Dean is squirming under him, moving lazily as he thrusts against the blanket. There’s a flush making its way down his shoulders, and Benny can’t help but lean back up to kiss the corner of his mouth. Okay, and grind his clothed erection against the soft swell of Dean’s ass. He’s only (formerly-)human.

Dean pushes back against him, legs parting in invitation; grumbles, “You gonna make me wait all day?” when Benny pulls away again.

“Don’t tempt me,” Benny warns, but he goes right on back to what he was doing. Kisses every inch of sun-warmed skin he can get his hands on, drags his tongue along the crease between thigh and buttock, near-enough palms a cheek in one big hand and chuckles in the back of his throat at Dean’s quiet groan. Gently, he runs the tip of his thumb along the cleft of Dean’s ass, and Dean shivers beneath him.

“Are you just gonna sit there,” Dean says, “or are you gonna fuck me?” Benny hears the tension in his voice. A couple more minutes, and he’ll hear it crack into a plea.

Not that his cock doesn’t give an interested twitch at the idea of fucking Dean—but he ignores it, murmurs, “Actually, I got something else in mind right now,” and gets to work with his tongue.

At the first touch of it against his entrance, Dean breathes in sharp, a gasp of surprise that turns into “ _Jesus_ , Benny,” and then into wordless, ragged breathing, which Benny knows is a sign he’s doing something right. Dean’s always been quiet—too many years of shared bedrooms, Benny figures—but Benny doesn’t need a vocal performance to know he’s getting the job done. There are other tells.

The flush of pink that spreads over Dean’s whole body, like a sunset beneath the skin. The way every muscle in his back bunches up tight, all of his strength tied up in just holding it together. The way his head falls forward when Benny works his tongue in deeper, and Benny knows without looking that he’s biting his lip, eyes scrunched up tight, toes curled.

The image touches something deep and instinctual in Benny, leaves him hard as a rock himself, but oh, he ain’t stopping now. 

It isn’t just the taste of Dean—salty from the dip he took in the sea earlier, the blood so close to the surface of his skin that Benny imagines a tang of iron on the tip of his tongue. It’s how Dean falls apart under him, wordless and pulled-taut and shaking, sliding his hips back but stilling obediently when Benny puts his palms there to hold him in place. (Benny may be no artist, but sometimes, he can capture a moment with his hands.) It’s how he knows, right now, that Dean isn’t thinking about the future—about how, in a couple hours’ time, he’ll have to leave, go back to a brother who hates what they have together without knowing what it is and an angel who lost his mind somewhere between here and Purgatory. If Benny had his way, he’d keep Dean right here, like this, always. With him in this moment, under the sinking sun.

He licks in deeper, swirls his tongue, keeps his pace maddeningly slow. And Dean doesn’t move to jack himself off, like he sometimes might. He lets Benny take him apart with his mouth, at his own pace, thighs trembling, catching fistfuls of the blanket and holding on tight. Benny won’t lie to himself: it’s gratifying to know Dean wants this to last, too.

Still, it’s over quicker than he wants it, Dean going rigid beneath him, panting out something that might be Benny’s name as he shudders through his orgasm.

Dean goes soft and pliant, afterwards, gives a sated hum as Benny frees his cock and slides it between Dean’s sweat-slick thighs, moves there with lazy, drawn-out strokes until he can’t hold it back any longer and he comes hard with his mouth pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades.

They stay like that, just for a moment, holding their breaths, until Benny finds himself shaking with the effort of holding himself up on his elbows. He rolls off of Dean onto the blanket.

Dean’s smiling when he turns over. He looks at Benny out the corner of his eye and says, “You know, if this thing’s rented, you better hope the owner ain’t the type to grab a pair of binoculars and keep an eye on his property.” He pats the deck of the boat, a quick, casual gesture.

But there’s a shadow in his eyes, and he’s looking back in the direction they came from; the direction of the shore. Another moment, and he’ll give Benny that heavy look and say, _Guess we better head back_.

“Damn right,” Benny says, trying not dwell on it, and grins back at him. “We don’t put on that kinda show for free.”

That gets a laugh. Without letting himself think about it too hard, he reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, laces their fingers together and doesn’t look Dean in the eyes. 

This ain’t something they do often—rare enough to count as weird, probably—but Dean doesn’t fight it. He gives Benny a look, this short, wide-eyed flash of startlement, but says nothing. He just sighs and and leans into Benny’s side. 

They sit there on the deck of the boat for a moment longer, rocking with the motion of the waves as the sun sinks toward the horizon, painting them with the last of its gold.


End file.
